


Recollection

by stardropdream



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is why he keeps those secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recollection

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ September 8, 2011.

  
When Kamui comes to Fuuma at night, there is never any talking. Kamui never speaks much, except when he is cross, pushing against him with a barely suppressed snarl—a demand, a ducking admission before he flings out a fist to connect with Fuuma’s jaw.   
  
He finds it amusing, really, how such ferocity melts away to such gentleness. (Gentleness, at least, for Kamui—a gentleness that is still frayed at the edges, still harsher than what most would expect, and yet so much softer than anything Fuuma has ever known.) He almost laughs. But he resists. If he dares laugh, he knows Kamui will recoil and that would be that—so he stays silent, smiling only a little. He does not dare laugh at the way Kamui’s hand, usually so rigid, moves along his hip. A warm recollection, perhaps—  
  
The sand outside, even in darkness, must still house the lasting warmth of the baking sun, which shines on even through the acidic grey-green clouds of rain.   
  
It’s remarkable the way such hands move against him, as if their bodies are not worn and sinew, as if Fuuma is something delicate, as if his skin is not rigid from the sun, as if it is not blemished by the dirt and blood and decay around them. It’s remarkable the way he looks up at him, if only for a moment, and looks at his eyes and sees something beyond the endless smile, beyond the cracked lines of his face he’s too young to have. It’s remarkable to see such seriousness directed at him for him, rather than against him.   
  
Those moments of elegance that Fuuma knows by heart—the ducksweephitduckhit _hit_ of their movements together—seem to disappear in these moments. Despite the way his hands touch him, despite the way their bodies press against each other as if it were always this way, Kamui’s movements are awkward, and Fuuma only pretends to not see the flicker of uncertainty in Kamui’s eyes because it’s easier that way. He can watch the way Kamui stares up at him whenever Fuuma smiles, whenever Fuuma speaks—as if Kamui is trying to make that final last connection he’s been avoiding, that final connection that would truly sever anything that is tentatively growing between them now—  
  
The same eyes, the same smile—achingly familiar, and yet unable to place it.   
  
(Or, rather, a refusal to place it, afraid of what will be found.)  
  
Kamui always finds the moments of awkwardness, pushes them away, resumes a relativity that Fuuma knows well—an actor playing his part, movements pretty and precise and inorganic. It’s the same when they fight, in that respect. Kamui can slice through a lesser opponent with such grace, overpower and shut down any threat, but with a movement that it is so quick in its efficiency and yet with a slowness that Fuuma can always appreciate the arc of his muscles, the clench of his jaw just before impact.   
  
(“How long have you been watching me?” Kamui would ask to such an observation to which Fuuma would only be able to respond with, “Always.”)   
  
(Always and always—far too addictive to look away from—)  
  
Kamui can move quickly and appear without warning, a simple blink of the eye and the distance is gone.   
  
But it’s different when the enemy is a threat, when the enemy is stronger than Kamui anticipated. Kamui shows off in those moments. His breathing slows on purpose, a mask of calm, smooth and clear as the water he guards. Kamui does his best to hide it, keeps his expression remote and withdrawn.   
  
That poised coolness is when Fuuma knows that Kamui is threatened, and it is the same in their fights as it is here—when Kamui pushes Fuuma against the wall with practiced coolness, gazes up at him through lidded eyes, his breathing as consistent and calculated as a metronome.   
  
And all Fuuma can do in these moments is smile.   
  
(Their clothes always fell away too easily. Fuuma’s fingers slipped into Kamui’s hair too easily as Kamui presses up against him like they were always meant to fit this way—)  
  
But Fuuma always finds the ways to make his breathing harsh again, to make the eyelids flutter for half a moment. The slip of his mouth, the arch of his fingers—  
  
It’s their secret. One that Fuuma has no intention of betraying—no intention of betraying, but no intention of forgetting. The way Kamui’s head tilts back, for half a second looking so broken and lost as he wraps a leg around Fuuma’s leg and draws him closer, fingers threatening nails as they pull down Fuuma’s back. He has no intention of forgetting the way Kamui clenches and bites and scratches into him, or ducks his head against Fuuma’s neck, as if there he is safe and Fuuma can’t feel the way Kamui’s mouth moves, the way his eyes clench shut and open again. His throat feels too dry in these moments, parched for water he can’t have.  
  
Kamui’s gasping and moaning quietly now, and this doesn’t count as talking, even if Fuuma is responding with sounds of his own, even the quiet gasp of Kamui’s name. It’s very silly, the way Kamui hesitates sometimes. Like doing this will change everything, as if it will change anything.   
  
He can pretend, but it’s often for show. Fuuma knows that well, and he pushes away the glimmers of childhood that spring to the surface, the curve of smiles that mean nothing but malice, if anything at all.   
  
But it’s in those moments that he thinks he and Kamui are not so dissimilar. There are words on his tongue he does not speak, and he can see the way things flicker through Kamui’s eyes, a slide-show of things he can’t and won’t say. He thinks it must be in his nature—this creature he holds against him are not human, do not dictate their lives towards the morals and insecurities of a frail human body.  
  
Vampires aren’t like humans, a lot of the time. They don’t always laugh when they are happy, or cry when they are sad. Kamui likes to think he is poised, that nothing betrays in his face. But Fuuma has seen the way he looks off in the horizon, searching out someone who is not there. He’s seen the way his expression morphs when, once again, Fuuma evades his attacks. He’s seen it in the dying light of the night, threatening sunrise, seen the way Kamui’s eyes flicker to his—flit in confusion (always trying to place him) and yet completely terrified of the moment when they pull away (when Fuuma’s fingers uncurl from his wrist and he lets him go, as if this changes anything—). They pretend so easily, Kamui pretends so easily. But Fuuma knows the ways of pretending, knows how to decode and reform and knows that when the real emotions come through, they confuse. Except for anger and hatred—those Fuuma knows so well, those Kamui knows so well.   
  
They seem to understand those things okay.   
  
This is why Fuuma keeps that secret. All those secrets.


End file.
